Man on a mission
by Unfocused Shot
Summary: Harleen Quinzel is tired. She's very tired of the courtroom proceedings, the constant state of knotting her panties seem to have gotten themselves into and will be very, very tired as soon as she steps back into the therapy room.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

Harleen let her fingers slide into her hair and gently scratched her scalp behind her left ear. She listened idly to the testimony of one of the officers and considered rotating her neck to get the kink that was forming in it out. The crack it would make however would echo in the courtroom and so she avoided jarring herself. It wasn't like they needed to look any worse than they already did. It didn't matter that the cop on the stand was waxing on and on about the trauma caused by the Joker and his brief seizure of the city.

This is impossible; she thought to herself and closed her eyes very briefly. It had been going on and on like this the whole day; the persecution was bringing witness after witness to the stand who'd either been there, lost someone mid-battle or was suffering from some stage of post-traumatic stress disorder.

It sure wasn't helping that the prosecutor was implying that there was far more to their doctor-patient relationship. Harleen dreaded being called to the stand but knew that she was more likely to be scheduled in tomorrow than today. It was only day one of the trial after all and the Joker's defense lawyer wanted her to speak closer to the end of the trial in some vague hopes that her testimony may stick with the judge that way.

The Joker's lawyer, a Ben Winters cornered her on the way to her office in Arkham after meeting with his client for the first time.

"You, Dr. Quinzel, you could have the power to change the entire opinion of the jury. Look at you, your young, successful, and clearly have a head on your shoulders. Just… I donno, act compassionate?"

"I prefer to actually have compassion for my patients rather than just acting like it Mr. Winters," replied Harley coldly, who slipped into her office and closed the door firmly behind her to weed out both the lawyer and her co-workers. She was beginning to become aware of the hesitancy with which they were now approaching her. It was like she had contacted some communicable disease and by being in her presence for too long they would catch it and suffer compassion for the Joker.

It was her compassion that set off the alarm bells she thought. That if she could feel anything but hatred for a man who brought an entire city to its knees, that she may feel something even less desirable. That perhaps she was in love with the man. Harley had to mentally snort at that accusation; she felt no love for him and he was incapable of feeling anything for her.

Occasional comradely sure, but certainly nothing like love. He made her laugh and she was never sure what she made him feel. It varied from moment to moment and she was sure that she saw everything from pride to hatred and occasionally affection flicking in and out of his features. At least on one occasion she'd seen desire. Harley had stepped into the interview room one day in a red jersey dress and her lab coat folder over her arm and since that day she'd hung the dress up in her room as an occasional reminder that even the Joker found her attractive and if he could surely less crazy men could as well.

He'd been very quiet when she'd walked in, which was the first thing that had alerted her that something was out of the ordinary. She'd sat down and pulled out her paperwork before a tiny part of her brain altered her that something was out of the ordinary and considering she didn't know if this was life or death she should probably pay attention. Her eyes travelled up from the paperwork and her briefcase and to his, where she saw amusement, desire and wariness flicker back and forth. She blushed slightly and looked back down at her paperwork.

"I'm sorry; I'm looking for my doctor. She looks a little bit like you but wears far more cardigans. You must be confused." He folded his hands together and pleased the fist they made on the table, looking at her with utter sincerity. Harleen chuckled lightly and pulled the remaining files from her briefcase.

"Am I now?"

"Well obviously, my doctor is a plain-looking blond thing with her hair up in a bun so tight that it saps all the fun right out of her. You're an_ attractive_ blond thing who looks like she knows how to have _fun_. So what happened Harls, finally get laid?" He scoffed.

"I work at an insane asylum, which usually kills the small talk before it becomes pillow talk." She murmured, pulling a mechanical pencil out at last.

"Next time, wear this dress and tell them that."

"I don't see what the fuss is about. It's not slinky or unprofessional and jersey for god sakes."

"You can't help but suck the fun out of everything eh Harls?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "This isn't about me, remember?"

He snorted, lifted his hands from the table and they went to cradle the back of his head as he leaned back in the metal chair. He was difficult the rest of the session, transitioning from teasing, to mean to cryptic and back again.

And she couldn't get that look of his from out of her head. It lingered with her throughout the day, while she listened to other patients, drank her coffee, and rode the route #17 home. It made her forget she was cooking dinner and nearly set her chicken on fire, its remnants sticking stubbornly to the bottom of the pan. It prodded her at night as she lay in her bed alone, staring at the red led lights on her alarm clock. She tried to quieten it with sleep techniques; counting, focusing, relaxing, but it only seemed to give her some peace when she got up from her bed, pulled the dress out from her closet and set placed the hanger on a wall hook in her bedroom.

She wore a cardigan the next day and could almost swear that he pouted.

But then it was in the air; the idea of them having sex. It lingered in the air during those sessions and would pester her at night when she was alone. She wanted to put even the notion of it in a box, seal it up tight and bury it somewhere where it couldn't come crawling back and seduce her with sweet words.

It was a full three months before she came to realize she was hybristophilic; but only a few minutes to realize that this was something she was never going to share with Joan over coffee. Getting turned on by bad boys in movies was one thing, being aroused by the murderer in front of you was another. It was at first a little bit exciting to listen to him tell her stories of what he'd done during that brief time he'd clearly been in charge of the city. She'd listen eagerly and he'd tell her just as eagerly. He was a performer at heart and it seemed in those sessions he regained some of his power. Once the idea of sex had been introduced into the equation the stories got darker and the words he used twisted inside her, provoked a reaction which both desirable and disturbing.

She was beginning to suspect that he knew and was secretly pleased by it. It was something about the wicked twinkle in his eye that would burst forth when he was trying to tease her. She'd given him one secret smile, shifted in her seat a little and it caused his eyes to glitter with vicious wonderment. She knew in that moment he knew and wasn't going to let her off the hook about it.

She was beginning to wonder whether his more sharing attitude was a result of his own little experiment. The one where he seduces with the violence he's caused and then watch's her own enjoyment make her squirm and create impatience within her. Impatient with the length of the session, impatient with cameras and very impatient with his pants.

She wondered if he was feeling very smug about it all. Harleen leaned forward and glanced through the crowded courtroom to the back of his head. He turned slightly and gave her a quick, naughty look.

Yes, very smug.

He was so convinced she was wicked underneath the bun and glasses and that the clear solution to this problem of her identity was to abandon society's rules and live like he does.

Clearly, this was a problem.

Sitting in the courtroom, looking at the back of his head through the crowd she knew that if they kept this up eventually she'd lose her job. For a while she had fooled herself into thinking that if she focused herself entirely on treatment she'd ignore the man and could just immerse herself in his symptoms, which the clear and constant reinforcement of his narcissism, lack of empathy and impulsiveness would keep her panties firmly planted on her and not on the floor.

"I think that after the trial is over, the Joker should be handed over to another primary physician." She'd said to Arkham, stopping him in the hallway on the way to his office.

"Nonsense Harleen, he responds so well to you compared to the other doctors."

"But I think I've given all that I can reasonable give sir." She retorted

"You're a quick thinker Harleen, I'm sure you can come up with something if the judge rules that he stays here and isn't carted over to Blackgate."

Blackgate. The idea made her feel both relief and fear for him.

Harleen was jolted back to reality with the sound of the Judge's gavel and a call for recess.

"-Court will resume tomorrow at 9 am."

She exited her seat and joined the exiting crowd. She could feel his eyes on her back, vying her to turn around and pay attention, but she felt herself push forwards and was out of the room before he could make eye contact.


End file.
